And She Would Fall
by Defying.Expectations
Summary: Three separate evenings in which Nellie Lovett breaks into Judge Turpin's home. Two evenings in which she is kicked out. One evening in which she stays. Turpin/Nellie with smudges of Sweeney/Nellie and Ben/Nellie.
1. Sacrifice

Fanfic50 #14: possible.

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><p>"Take me."<p>

Turpin jolted up from his settee and whirled around, jaw slackening when he saw who stood in the doorway to his parlor. _"What?"_

Nellie stepped from the doorway and into the room, allowing the door to _click_ shut behind her, one corner of her mouth curled upward in a neglected smile. "Y'heard me, love."

"How did you get inside?" he demanded, recovering his typical polished veneer of apathy, but not able to entirely disguise his wide eyes as he stared at her.

"'S'called a window, darling. Might want to pay better attention to what your servants're up to – one of 'em's clearly slacking on their window-locking duties." She slunk further into the room, one hand trailing across the wall, moving with the lackadaisical confidence of an owner. "Not that I'm complaining, mind . . ."

His eyebrows drew together. "What is it that you want, Mrs. Lovett?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, c'mon, love. Y'heard me the first time." She ripped open her overcoat to reveal her body, clad in only her underlayers. Her mouth smirked as his eyes fell, against his will, upon her breasts, nearly bursting over the top of her poorly laced corset. "_Take me_."

He did not move.

"Forget about Lucy. Whaddya want with a stupid little thing like her anyway? She don't know the first thing about – " she struggled for a moment, then snorted " – about _anything_." Her eyelids lowered to half-mast, brown gaze glittering up at him through her eyelashes, and she tried not to let them shake. "About how to please a man . . ."

Turpin strode towards her; she tautened her muscles lest they try to betray her and flee. His eyes flicked over her face, her throat, her bosom. Nellie tilted her head up, breathing more constrained than even her corset ever made them when laced properly, and closed her eyes so she would not have to stare into his face.

Fingertips lighted upon her cheek. Her labored breathing intensified in repulsion and hatred and fear of the man standing before her and_ it'll be worth it it'll be worth it this's all for him and that's all that's worthy in this world that's all_ –

The fingertips seized her face with a sudden violence, thumb clamped upon one cheek and fingers upon the other, palm shoved into her chin. Her eyes sprinted open with a gasp.

His face hovered a mere inch from hers. In stark contrast to the brutality of his movement and his grip, his expression was relaxed, a smile playing at his mouth.

"Do you really believe me foolish enough to think that this has anything to do with you thinking poorly of Lucy – _or_ you thinking highly of me?" he asked her, amiably, the smile still at his lips, but his hand held tight to her face, merciless.

She knew it was too late – she knew she had betrayed herself when her face had gone slack at her gasp – but masking was all Nellie had ever been adept at, all she had ever known: she pleated her face into its former attire of brash wantonness, eyelashes lowered, smirking lips half-parted in invitation. "How could you doubt it for a moment, m'lord – "

He released her face with a snap of his wrist; she gasped again and gingerly touched her aching jaw as his feet charted to the other side of the parlor.

When he turned again to face her, her emotions had yet to be shrouded – fingers massaging her face, eyes watering, lips half-parted in fear – but no longer just fear of the man before her, but fear for the man not before her, fear for the one currently sitting in Newgate prison, fear for the one whose presence was forever anchored in her bones, fear for the one she stood here for tonight, unbeknownst to him. . . .

She could not tell him where she had gone tonight, of course. Even though he did not love her, he would never allow her to try and sacrifice herself for his sake. He was far too noble and good for that; he would sooner sacrifice himself than allow her to do the same for his sake, and she could not allow that, not if she wanted to continue living.

And yet a part of her wished that she had told him – a part of her wished that he knew, that he would miraculously break through the walls of his cell and come bursting into this room and rescue her, even though she despised being rescued and not able to rescue herself – because only now that she was here was the full horror settling over her, the burden of the fate that she was condemning herself to, the torment of prostrating herself for a man she did not love –

"Return to your home, Mrs. Lovett," said Turpin, that same smile still at his lips, "before you do something that you regret."

Blood scorched through her veins and thunder clapped in her heart. She took a step forward. "It's you what's going to regret this, Turpin – killing a man what's done you no harm – "

"Kill? My dear Mrs. Lovett, you do realize the proposed sentence for Mr. Barker – why do you look so shocked at my pronouncing his name? is it not acceptable to say aloud what we both are thinking? – you do realize his proposed sentence is deportation, not death?"

"Kills don't have to be physical, as you well know – "

"It might well become physical, if you do not leave immediately."

She shuddered, because she knew he meant it – because she knew he could.

"Return to your home," he intoned in the patronizingly kind voice of a father telling his children to go to bed, commanding and gentle all at once. "If you continue to trespass, you might not do anything that you sincerely regret – but _I_ most assuredly will."

"Sincerely regret, eh?" she managed to choke out, taunting him, trying to mask her trembling through her mockery. "And just what – "

"Mrs. Lovett," said Turpin, softly, too softly, lips coiled upward like contentedly sleeping snakes, "you cannot rescue him."

Her body shuddered again, against her will; the thunder of her heart ceased and closed all ability to speak, to function, to continue and live unwhole, without him.

But she had to. Every road from here led to defeat. All she could do was hang her head and accept the lesser of the evils, the fate of existing without Benjamin Barker dwelling above her, of he moldering far away in Australia – but at least not moldering in the grave . . .

Her mind accepted her defeat as rational. Her heart banged a different tune.

"Good night, Mrs. Lovett," said Turpin cordially. "Shall I show you to the door, or might you find your own way out, since you so cleverly entered in such a fashion?"

She forced through her nostrils a breath and forced through her mouth the sentence: "I'll let myself out, thanks."

Turpin bowed but kept his head lifted, eyes gleaming like daggers in his skull. "Until we meet again, then – farewell."

He picked up her overcoat from the floor and walked to her side, holding out the material to assist her in putting it back on. She snatched it from him, jerked the coat tight around her body to hide her loose undergarments from any stray drunkards that might be wandering about the city, and hurried out of the house.

She did not say farewell in return before departing. It took all of her willpower to propel her motionless feet from the room, down the stairs, and into the darkness of the streets. All of her willpower to keep her crumpled heart beating.

And she silently vowed – to both her arrhythmic pulse and to Judge Alexander Turpin – that this battle was not yet over.

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><p><strong>AN:** Reviews are love.


	2. Rescue

Fanfic50 #32: Abducted.

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><p>Nellie Lovett was not a thief.<p>

Were an outsider to observe her current stance – feet planted upon a doorstep so firmly not even the wrath of God could budge her, shoulders hunched to her ears, hands fidgeting rapidly at the lock with a hair pin – they likely would have assumed that she was. But that was not true. One could only be a thief if they took what did not belong to them.

And what she was after was already hers. Or should have been, at least, were it not currently housed elsewhere.

Once the lock was successfully jimmied open, she wedged herself inside and shut the door on a soundless breath. Darkness enveloped her. She blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust, and eventually began to make out vague shapes: sweeping arches for doorways; an elaborate chandelier above her head; a looming spiral staircase. So this was the great Judge Turpin's house. She'd never been effluent enough to be invited over; the one instance that she had invited herself over six months ago, she had snuck through the parlor window rather than the front door, and thus didn't have time to properly appreciate the scenery. Since then, Turpin had apparently gone through great lengths to ensure that each and every one of his windows was latched properly before he retired for the evening. Not that it mattered: Nellie Lovett was certainly not uncreative enough to need to pull the precise same stunt twice in a row. She could pick a lock just as well as she could slip through a window.

Now . . . where would it be? Unfamiliar with the layout of the manor, she hadn't the faintest idea where to begin. And judging from the exterior of the place, navigating its twists and turns would be no easy feat. Especially with miles and miles of darkness seeped in front of her. If only she didn't have to sneak into the home, if only she did not have to play the role of a –

No. _He_ was the thief. Not her. Nellie might have had some moments of her past that she was not proud of, but never would she be considered a common criminal. How lusterless. How shameful.

Likely it would be on one of the upper levels, she reasoned, and with hands carefully stretched in front of her lest her eyes fail to discern a bit of furniture, she started towards the staircase.

Mercifully, the steps did not squeak as hers were so prone to. One of the many benefits of being part of the upper class: being able to afford inconspicuous, unsqueaking stairs.

_Now's not the time for jealousy, Lovett. Just find it and leave._

Expecting another stair, her feet tripped over air for a moment when she reached the landing, and she toppled forward, catching herself against the wall. She froze, cursing affluently in her mind, but she heard not a sound: Turpin was a sound sleeper, apparently. Another mercy granted her. It was high time: these were the first granted her in the dry spell of an eternity.

She pulled away from the wall and treaded forward. There were far too many rooms up here. She had no idea how she would ever locate the right one, but, well, there was really only one way to go about it:

Wrapping her fingers around the nearest doorknob, heart clapping in time to her thoughts – _what if it's not this one, what if a servant's in here, or Turpin himself, don't panic, don't panic, it'll be fine, what if Turpin, oh shit_ – Nellie nudged open a door only far enough to peer inside with one eye.

The room was empty save for a wide bookcase and three cushy armchairs.

Softly as she could, Nellie pulled the door shut and ventured on. The next door was merely another entrance to the previous room; the third led to a washroom; the fourth to an empty bedroom; the fifth to another empty bedroom –

Her blood solidified, crippling her body of all movement.

This bedroom wasn't empty. Turpin was in the bed.

Her eyes swept over his shadowed form: the eyelids relaxed over the eyeballs, the imprecise half-curve of the mouth, the even rise and fall of his chest beneath the satin blanket. She had never visualized a sleeping Judge Turpin; she had never imagined that a person who thrived upon control and action could be inactive, dormant, not in possession of anything but a relaxed face, a soft surrender to anything but himself.

She jerked her head to pull herself back to reality and closed the door, continuing down the hallway and approaching the room next to his. For surely, if Turpin slept in there, he would keep what he had stolen close by –

She opened the door upon a spacious room that contained only an expansive window filtering moonlight upon the floor and a single speck of furniture: a cradle cut from cherrywood.

All thoughts of keeping quiet forgotten, Nellie raced forward and yanked aside the curtains covering the crib.

The baby whimpered at being so suddenly and harshly exposed to the bright moonlight – but when those cornflower blue eyes found Nellie's, her tiny lips flourished in a grin of recognition.

"Oh, love," Nellie breathed, and scooped Johanna into her arms, balancing the little girl upon her hip. Johanna cuddled against Nellie's shoulder, linking her fingers through Nellie's curls, still grinning crookedly and revealing eleven pearly white teeth. Nellie's heart cramped: last time she'd seen Johanna, she'd had ten teeth.

"I'm so sorry, Jo," she intoned in a voice less than a whisper. "I shouldn't have never let him take you – I tried to stop him – you saw me, I tried, I did . . ."

Her apologies seemed to be wasted: Johanna continued smiling and playing with Nellie's hair without fail, only happy to be returned to the arms of the last person who cared about her. The last person still completely sane and still within ten thousand miles who cared about her, that was.

Nellie secured Johanna in her arms. "But it doesn't matter now . . . 'cause you and me, Jo, we're going to run away – "

As though understanding her words, Johanna tugged more urgently at Nellie's locks.

"Not forever, darling, don't you worry . . . London's our home. Just for a little while. Just long enough to find a judge outside of the city what actually does his job and doles out justice rather than shit – pardon me, love, I meant – erm – nonsense. Once we find ourselves one of those, we'll drag him back to London, have him restore order, return your father to London, and force Turpin and his lackeys to either drown themselves or stick their heads in boiling vats of oil."

"Abbah boo dee – " Johanna cooed, pulling still more insistently at Nellie's hair, and then Nellie understood.

"Shhhhh," Nellie whispered, smoothing the girl's blonde locks back from her forehead. "Hush, love. That's all we can hope for. Ain't nothing to be done for your mother." Her eyes darkened. "Ain't nothing should be done either – she abandoned you, Jo, the minute she swallowed that arsenic – she doesn't deserve your pity or love any longer."

Johanna silenced, but her smile was gone.

Nellie bit her lip: did the girl actually understand what she was saying? Or were her reactions to Nellie's words mere coincidences?

_The ones who dwell in misery always have to learn about the world faster than the naïvely happy do . . ._

Swallowing, Nellie picked up the blanket inside the crib and swaddled Johanna inside its fleece. "Alrighty, Jo – you ready?"

The blue eyes solemnly blinked at her.

Nellie grinned, pressed a kiss to Johanna's forehead, and turned around to exit the room –

Her blood cemented in her veins again and forced her body to a halt. Her breath caught in her throat and her mind refused to accept the defeat of a battle she had worked for so hard and waited for so long and yearned for so earnestly, a battle she could not accept defeat for this time, not this time, there must be a path that did not lead to defeat –

In her arms, Johanna began to cry.

"Leaving so soon, Mrs. Lovett?" Judge Turpin asked from the doorway, in a congenial tone more appropriate for conversation between friends over wine than between enemies in the midst of a theft. "But I have not even properly welcomed you to my humble abode. And wouldn't you like a tour before you depart?"

"Move," said Nellie, when her blood had resumed its flow and her voice had been found, softly clucking to Johanna in a feeble attempt to quiet her sobs.

Even cloaked in the shadows, out of reach of the moonlight, his lift of one eyebrow could not be missed. "I can't even tempt you to admire the silverware? I have quite the collection."

"Just let me pass, Turpin," she growled.

A flash of whiteness against the dark: a smile more invitation than threat, but still one that curdled her blood. "You seem to be under the mistaken impression that you hold all the cards in this situation, my dear. Whatever gave you this idea?"

"My apologies, _my lord_," Nellie sneered before she could stop herself; Turpin's eyebrow raised further and Johanna sobbed in her ear.

_Mockery is not the way to get out of this alive, Lovett. _

Pushing the smirk off her face, she continued, "Listen – just let me leave with the girl – what d'you want her for anyhow, she'd just be a burden – you don't know how to care for a child – "

"And you do?" Turpin inquired in a manner that epitomized polite society, his teeth bared in a travesty of a smile. "I beg your pardon, but how many children have you expected and lost? Five times now – yes, I do believe I've seen you strolling the streets with your corset strings loosened for five different occasions – isn't that correct?"

_Don't get riled, don't react, that's what he wants . . ._

"I'll take care of her," said Nellie, "and I'll do it well, and at no cost to you – you'll never hear from either of us again, I swear it – "

"Not until you boil that vat of oil to stick my head in, at least," he drawled.

"Please," Nellie began to grovel, growing crazed with desperation, biting her lip and clutching the bawling Johanna tighter against her, "just let me take the girl – she's lost both her parents, don't make her lose her home too – "

Turpin swept from the doorway inside the room and came to a halt mere inches away from where she stood, towering above her, the moments of soft slumber long gone from the hardened face. His eyes smoldered with rage that the former shadows had veiled but that the moonlight laid bare. Nellie gripped Johanna so firmly she lost feeling in her arms.

"Do not pretend this is about the girl, Mrs. Lovett," said Turpin levelly, his voice far more adept at concealing what his gaze could not. Johanna's sobs increased in volume, but Turpin did not trouble to raise his voice. "We both know that the best possible scenario for her is to grow up here under the watch of someone who can actually afford to – "

"I can afford what she needs just fine – "

" – and under the watch of someone who trulycares for her – "

"How dare you," said Nellie, trembling with fury, Johanna's wails and the pounding in her head driving her voice to raise its volume, "how dare you – I care for her far more than you'll _ever _be able – "

"For her, Mrs. Lovett? You care for her? Or for the man whose blood courses through her veins?"

"Don't you – of course I care for – for her – she's like my own daughter, she is – for months while Lucy lied in bed, I took care of her – for her – "

"And it's she whom you are worried about losing her home?" Turpin continued, as though he had not heard. "It's she that you are worried about everyone she loves abandoning her? Not you?"

"_You bastard – "_

Taking advantage of her grip that had gone slack from fury, his hands leapt from his sides and wrenched Johanna away from her. Blind with rage, Nellie lunged towards him, arms outstretched and fingers poised like claws to snatch, rip, harm, whatever she needed to do to be with the daughter that should have been hers, to hold the last tangible bit of Benjamin Barker in her hands –

"_Stop,"_ Turpin hissed. In stark contrast to the din in the room before, all neared silent now: Nellie's shouts died in her throat, and Johanna's cries silenced as he held her. "Do not forget who you are, or who I am – or how simple it would be for my hand to address a letter to Botany Bay requesting a hanging."

Nellie swallowed a cry and retreated, body sagging, eyes flying over Turpin's features, searching frantically for any sort of crack in his armor, any chance of she still taking Johanna. He gazed back at her, face impassive, eyes glinting.

Her gaze turned next to Johanna. Johanna merely looked right back at Nellie from Turpin's arms, not bawling, not accepting, not fighting. Just looking.

Swallowing, Nellie took a step towards Turpin.

He pulled away from her at once, words of _"do not try my patience"_ upon his lips, but she cut him off, her voice listless: "I just want to say good-bye to Johanna."

He eyed her skeptically, but nodded his consent. Not that she was going to wait for his consent anyway: her feet were already pushing forward, closing the gap between she and the child, heedless of everything but for this one final salvo before her second defeat in this battle.

She grasped Johanna's face between her palms, eyes stinging. "Good-bye, Jo," she whispered.

Johanna's lips parted in a last grin.

Nellie pushed Johanna's hair away from her eyes, kissed her forehead, and departed.

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><p><strong>AN:** And so concludes part two of three . . .

Reviews are love.


	3. Escape

Fanfic50 #40: substance.

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><p>"Why, Mrs. Lovett. I must say that I was not expecting you and am thus hardly dressed for company."<p>

Nellie threw herself into an armchair and dangled her legs off the edge. "Couldn't be bothered by the fact less, love. Though I don't know why you _wouldn't_ be expecting me."

Turpin raised his eyebrows as he strode towards his bookcase. "Well, my dear, it has been sixteen years since you snuck into my home."

"Exactly." She lolled her head against the armrest. "And I would've figured you'd be expecting me for all those sixteen years and thus're _always _dressed for the occasion."

"Even so," said Turpin as he reached for a decanter and poured two glasses of alcohol, "I am delighted that you have decided to grace me again with your presence. But I am puzzled as to how you managed to enter. My servants never fail to lock my windows anymore, and I have installed a sturdy deadbolt to the front door, rendering it unpickable. Pray, tell – how did you maneuver inside this time?"

She shifted her skull towards him, eyelids drooping lackadaisically. "It's my best break-in yet, love – so ingenious that you'll hardly believe I thought of it all on my own."

"What?"

"A little thing I like to call knocking and waiting for the maid to let me in."

She watched him fight against a smirk before turning to her, holding out one glass in her direction. "Port?"

Her lolling head snapped to attention. "So you can dump some sort of drug into my drink? I don't think so."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Turpin. You put something in that drink. You want to muddle my reality so you can jump on me the way you did Lucy Barker – and I'm telling you that ain't going to happen in a million years."

"You have no faith in me, do you?" he asked as he crossed over to her, seating himself in the chair opposite and placing both glasses upon the tea table, an air of both amusement and disappointment to his words.

She snorted. "You ever given me reason to?"

"I did not ever drug Lucy Barker, my dear. Such low practices were not needed – and they would not be needed with you either."

"Not needed? You actually think I'd ever throw myself at you of my own choice?" she scoffed.

"You did sixteen years ago," Turpin reminded her softly, sipping his port, eyes sparkling over the rim of his glass.

She had to avert her gaze from his, to the solitary goblet upon the table that she would not touch.

"Nonetheless, even though I did not place any sort of 'muddling' substance in her drink," he went on as though there had been no disturbance in the conversation, "Lucy Barker's – eventual outcome was an unfortunate tragedy. I would never dream of disputing that, Mrs. Lovett."

"You also wouldn't ever feel any remorse about it, apparently," said Nellie, squinting into his face.

It was his turn to avert his gaze. She lifted one eyebrow in surprise: she had not expected her remark to provoke any sort of response.

"Why are you here, Mrs. Lovett?" asked Turpin, concealing the moment of weakness as best he knew how, taking another taste of his port. "You never sneak inside without purpose. To what devious motivation do I owe the honor tonight?"

"To enjoy your company, m'lord, is motivation enough," Nellie simpered, then turned serious, sliding her legs off the chair's armrest and positioning herself properly in the chair. "I want you to let Johanna go."

A muscle in his jaw shifted. "She deceived me. She does not deserve to be released."

"Whatever obscure place you stashed her at, she's been there for ten months now. Surely that's long enough for a young girl to learn her lesson – "

"Clearly not long enough. I visit her every fortnight and she has not yet repented."

"You said Lucy was a tragedy," Nellie persisted, "you said what happened to her was unfortunate. Don't make the same mistake twice, don't send the daughter mad like you did the mother – "

Turpin winced as though struck; Nellie's words died in her throat and she shot him a curious, almost appraising look.

"Can this be?" she voiced, astonished. "Can the great Judge Turpin be feeling remorse about something that he did to another human being – "

The tumbler in his hand burst. Nellie let out a gasp as glass and port rained down upon the floor. She reflexively leaned forward to scoop up the mess but froze in her chair when her eyes got caught in the blaze of Turpin's glare.

"Mrs. Lovett," he hissed, and if she didn't know any better she would have sworn that his lips trembled over the words, "if you have any sense left at all in that ridiculous head of yours, you will shut your mouth this instant."

Nellie Lovett was not one to follow orders, especially not from the scum of the Earth. But she was in no position to gamble any more than she already had; whatever she might like to tell herself, Turpin had the upper hand here, and she needed to keep that hand docile if she ever wanted to achieve her objective: to get Johanna free and out of whatever hellhole she currently dwelt in, to let the girl finally have a proper mother and father, to bring even the suggestion of a smile to Sweeney's face . . .

"Why do you still care so much about Johanna, might I ask?" Turpin drawled, wiping the drops of port clinging to his hand upon a handkerchief. Nellie expected him to next begin to clean up the carpet of the shards and the alcohol, but he seemed to prefer and act as though there was no rubble of any sort by his feet. "I know you lusted for her father, but surely you know he's more than likely dead by now. Keeping the girl sane and happy for his sake is no longer a motivation."

_Careful here, Lovett. _

"I'm not allowed to care about the child separate from whatever girlish fancies I might've had about Benjamin Barker?" she inquired sardonically. "You forget that I tended to her like a mother for months before you stole – "

"I never stole – "

" – _stole_ her from me," insisted Nellie. "I grew to care for her a lot during those months."

"And, even sixteen years later, even having not spent time with her at all during that long interim, you still hold those same sentiments?"

"Yes."

Turpin chuckled. "I'm sorry, my dear: you are quite adept at lying, I'll give you that – but I do not believe you. I think this is still for Barker's sake, not hers. Though how you possibly think this could help a dead man, I can't figure out." He examined his fingernails, feigning disinterest in the conversation. "Nor can I figure out why you would still care to help him. You have another man to lust after now, or so I hear from the rumormongers – and, if those mongers are to be trusted, he is far more receptive to your carnal wants than Barker ever was."

When she did not answer, he raised his eyes to hers, one side of his mouth curling in a lax half-smirk. "Oh? Is the gossip not to be trusted?"

Nellie returned the ghosting smirk. "I never kiss and tell, my lord."

"Does he know you're here?" he asked abruptly.

"Who?"

"Todd," barked Turpin.

"'Course not," said Nellie, startled by his sudden urgency. "What's this got to do with him?"

He relaxed, returning his attention to his nails, still smirking. "Well, I doubt he would take kindly to you spending the evening alone with another man . . ."

"Don't make this into something it isn't, _sir_. This's a business transaction, nothing more."

"But of course."

"So?" she demanded, losing patience with the pretense of a languid atmosphere. "You going to release Johanna or not?"

The smirk rippled across his lips, expanding over his entire face. "Mrs. Lovett, my dear – I'm sorry, but I am confused on one point."

"And what's that?" she snapped.

"You termed this a business transaction. In such a process, however, the two participants not only give something to the other, but receive something as well. If this is indeed a business transaction, then what am I to receive in return?"

Nellie bit her cheek: and just when she was actually starting to be able to put a little of her wages off to the side, for once, rather than pinching every penny down to the bone. "How much money d'you want, then?"

Turpin chortled. "Do I appear to be in want of money, my dear?" When he looked up from his nails this time, the smirk had vanished from his mouth and instead gleamed in his eyes, simultaneously inviting and already anticipating her acceptance.

She did not shift her position.

"You were eager enough for the opportunity sixteen years ago," he continued, leaning back in his chair, waiting for she to come to him rather than the other way around, deliciating in his power to get his way without brute force. "I was not interested in such a – transaction – back then . . . but I am now."

_What're you waiting for? He's saying he'll release Johanna. All you got to do is give him what you were going to give him years ago anyhow. So get up. Get up and get it over with._

Her body would not move.

Her mind knew she must. Her mind told her she must – her mind rattled off all the reasons about Johanna slowly spinning into insanity and Sweeney slowly killing himself and how rescuing the girl would make it all end – her mind screamed at her for not goddamn moving at all –

_strong hands upon her body, callused fingers deftly moving over skin, lacerated back clasped tight in her arms, breath of gin and blood on her lips, hot mouth on her breast, quiet groan of "my pet, my love, my fire, oh God" in her ear_

She shot to her feet.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she articulated. "I don't think this transaction can be completed after all."

Yes, sixteen years ago, she had been willing to sleep with Turpin – and would have, had Turpin not prevented her. Yes, there was no logical reason for her not to still be able to endure one night for the greater good of countless years.

But sixteen years ago, she had not known what Sweeney Todd's touch felt like. Sixteen years ago, her body would not have betrayed his by sleeping with another man.

Those sixteen years were long gone – and in the here and now, or tonight, or any future moment while her heart still beat, she could not sacrifice the gift of his touch and his trust for any cause, greater good or not.

She looked at Turpin, half-expecting him to spring to his feet and hurl her to the ground, wondering why she did not run before he could. But he only looked right back at her, impassive, the formerly smirking eyes still and reticent.

For reasons she could not explain, she found herself kneeling down by his feet, picking up the broken glass of his tumbler. Normally unbothered by a bit of untidiness here and there, this wreckage was one she could not bear the idea of leaving uncleaned.

"I'll just scoop this mess up, and then I'll be on my way – out the front door, nice and proper like, without picking the lock or anything – and then you'll be shod of me forever, I promise – "

Fingertips lighted upon her chin and nudged her face upward to meet his downturned gaze. She froze.

They stared at each other, she up from his floor with his glass shards in her hand, he down from his chair with her face in his hand. Then, wordlessly, his other hand reached out to graze his knuckles along her cheek. His fingers quivering with desire.

_Pull away pull away pull away –_

Her body would not move.

Because – God, but it did feel good to feel desired again . . . desired not just in the physical sense, not just because she was there, but because she was _her_ – to be looked at as though she were something precious, something worth desiring, rather than just something to romp with between the sheets before being thrown out of the bed in disgusted rage – and even if it was only because he knew that she wanted to be looked at like that, he still was looking _at_ her rather than right through – and even if it was not the man she wanted it to be, it did feel good to be wanted and not just another meaningless presence in a room and _don't you dare Lovett don't you dare –_

He pulled up against her chin, urging her to stand – she rose to her feet, dropping the glass shards back upon the floor – then he stood too – then his lips were playing over her forehead, her jawline, her collarbone, so slowly, so tenderly, so unlike – _no_ – taking his time the way he never – _stop stop stop _– appreciating her the way he did not –_ you can't do this to him you can't betray him _–

She took Turpin's face in her hands and kissed him, softly as she was never allowed, insistently as she always did with any action she performed. She kissed him in defiance of every way that Sweeney had ever hurt her, in confession that she just wanted to be treasured for once.

"You see?" Turpin whispered, his breath

_of gin and blood _

hot

_like his mouth on her breast_

against her neck, his fingers

_deftly moving over her flesh_

_no follow your own advice stay in the present enjoy this moment enjoy being cherished for goddamn once_

undoing the strings of her dress. "I do not need any sort of drug or foreign substance to get my way, my dear."

She ripped off his cravat. "I know, darling."

"And I'm not going to let Johanna go," he breathed as her dress

_tears between his fingers in his haste to remove it and feel her naked against him_

dropped, soft and whole, to the ground, fluttering over the glass shards and port droplets, concealing the mess as thoroughly as if it had never been there.

She undid the buttons of his shirt, one by one. "I know that too, love. Trust me – that's no longer my motivation."

Now she just wished for herself to not go mad in the solitude. Now she did not care if Johanna or Sweeney ever escaped from their prisons – now she only cared if she escaped from hers – even if just for an instant, a breath – even if she never could.

And that was his motivation too: to escape. She knew that as well as she knew her own motivation, knew it as he guided her footsteps backwards, assuredly and carefully, until her legs met the edge of the sofa and they both tumbled upon it. She knew it as she fisted her hands in his hair, his mouth

_burning its way down the length of her neck like delicious hellfire_

wandering across her face, confident but gentle, his hands busy at her undergarments. She knew it from the way his tumbler had shattered in his bare fist at the mention of Lucy and his eyes had flared with hatred that was not directed at Nellie, but himself. She knew it without he even saying a word.

Tonight, they both needed an escape. They both needed to pretend they could still win their battles, these battles that they had lost long ago.

She always thought that she had lost her long-standing fight against Turpin. But as he branded his mouth to hers and trailed icy fingers

_so cold for a living man, so unlike the scalding fingers of my dead one_

across herbreasts, and as she inhaled port and cologne but smelled only gin and blood, she realized the truth:

She had lost the battle against herself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Um. Yeah. Turpett still gives me the willies, dear readers. But I am a slave to my plot bunnies. So I wrote this. And I would thus love to know what you think of it . . .despite the fact that I am now permanently hibernating in my Toddvett cave. ;]


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